We sat across the table.
he said, cut off your hands.
they are always poking at things.
they might touch me.
I said yes.
Food grew cold on the table.
he said, burn your body.
it is not clean and smells like sex.
it rubs my mind sore.
I said yes.
I love you, I said.
That's very nice, he said
I like to be loved,
that makes me happy.
Have you cut off your hands yet?
Marge Piercy's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (The Friend by Marge Piercy )
- Crime & War, Dean Meredith
- This world is messy, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Barriers Within, Namita Sawant
- Ma mate kahuchhi, gajanan mishra
- The New Watch, Terence Murphy
- My mother is telling me, gajanan mishra
- The Search, david kush
- Belissima, Patricia Spears Jones
- Ghosts, Patricia Spears Jones
- Let me proceed forward, gajanan mishra
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